


Esoteric

by EmeraldTulip



Category: IT (2017), IT (2019), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Stanley Uris is a Good Friend, a gay mess at that, the kissing bridge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 10:47:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20357206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldTulip/pseuds/EmeraldTulip
Summary: Stan didn't expect for his day to end on the Kissing Bridge, faced with a frantic Richie Tozier and a carving in the wood.





	Esoteric

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theliteraltrash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theliteraltrash/gifts).

> hey so this is inspired by [this post](https://stanielman.tumblr.com/post/187190380062/stan-was-richies-best-friend-and-he-never-got-to) by [@stanielman](https://stanielman.tumblr.com) on tumblr because I like pain apparently! I just wish,,,, stan got to know what richie was going through. so I wrote it because fuck you andy  
oh also: esoteric means "intended for or likely to be understood by only a small number of people with a specialized knowledge or interest" so like. only derry people will understand derry, only losers will understand losers, only stan will understand this thing about richie. yeah.  
anyway. enjoy!

Stanley curses under his breath as a gust of wind sweeps across the road, the handlebars of his bike wobbling. His short-sleeved shirt isn’t nearly enough to stave off the chill, especially not when his speed is factored in. The sky is turning overcast, too, and he worriedly glances up as he races down the hill. He almost misses the final turn, pulling hard on his brake and skidding, but he catches his balance before he falls, leaping off of his bike and running alongside it until his foot meets wood.

“Hey,” he says, toeing the kickstand down, and Richie jumps, turning to face him.

“Oh, good, you’re here.” Richie begins to ramble immediately, and Stan can already feel a headache forming. He thinks it is weird, though, that Richie hasn’t cracked a joke yet—he’s already been here for thirty seconds. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show. It’s probably gonna start raining soon, so I thought, _well, if he doesn’t come in the next few minutes I guess I gotta go,_ but then I would have felt like a complete loser and then if you showed up after I left that would be a dick move, and—”

“Richie,” Stan interrupts.

He seems to deflate. “Right. Sorry.”

_Richie just said sorry._ It’s a small thing, and Stan feels like he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is. Richie just… doesn’t usually apologize for talking, unless it’s Eddie (or _sometimes_ Bev) being serious and telling him to _beep beep_.

His mouth opens and closes a couple times, and if Stanley didn’t know any better, he would say that Trashmouth is at a loss for words.

“Richie,” he sighs after a solid minute has passed. “Seriously, what’s going on? You called me out of nowhere, now I’m here, and I don’t know _why_.”

Richie pushes his glasses up his nose even though they aren’t slipping, and Stan has known him for long enough to recognize that as a nervous tic. “Right. Right. Uh.” He sighs, and his hand touches the bridge of his glasses again before he catches himself and forces his fingers into his pockets. “Stan. The Man. Staniel. We’re friends, right?” Stan must be making a weird face, because Richie coughs awkwardly. “Don’t know why I asked. Anyway.” He shifts from one foot to the other, uncomfortable, and his hand twitches again like it wants to go back toward his face. “I just… didn’t know who else to call.”

And whoa, okay, Richie almost sounds… _scared._ But that makes no sense, because he hasn’t sounded anywhere near as terrified as he does right now, not even at Neibolt. _Not even at Neibolt._ But there’s no clown here, no angry gang, just a bridge.

“Sucking face and carving names,” Richie says, and there’s something in his eyes that Stan thinks might be tears. “That’s what this bridge is for.”

“I know, Richie,” Stan says, “I live in this town, too.”

Richie’s hand does twitch up, but he seems to divert it from his face and to the back of his neck, and Stan can see the white lines his nails leave as he drags his fingers down his skin. “I really, really have to tell _somebody_. And, dammit, you’re the only person I could think of.”

“Tell me _what_?” Stanley asks, exasperated, because usually when Richie says _I have to tell you something,_ he’s fucked up. “What did you do?”

The color seems to have gone from Richie’s face, and his hand drops back to his side. “I carved something,” he says, and he somehow pales even more, as if stunned by the words coming from his own mouth.

There’s yet another weird expression on his own face, Stanley knows, because he can feel the corners of his mouth tugging up even though he’s still very confused. “Does that mean… you kissed somebody?”

And that appears to be the wrong thing to say, because Richie has never looked closer to tears—apart from, fittingly, Neibolt house, when he was crouched over Eddie, screaming. “I’ve never kissed anybody, Stan,” he says, his voice dry, and Stan draws a blank for a second.

Richie Tozier, “I banged your mom,” talks too much about girls, crude and trashmouthed _Richie Tozier_—has never kissed anyone. And yet, he’s carved a name.

“Okay,” Stan says after a moment. “Then what?”

Richie shifts from foot to foot again, his eyes screwed shut as though he’s bracing himself for a car wreck, and then he steps to the side. “There,” he mutters, gesturing to the railing.

Stan approaches cautiously, squinting down at the various names and letters etched into the wood.

“R,” Richie says, “that’s me. R plus—”

“E,” Stan reads, and he cranes his neck to look over at Richie. “Who’s E?”

_Fuck,_ Stan thinks when Richie’s expression turns even more devastated. _Wrong thing to say. Again._

“I…” Richie chokes out, “I—I…” he cuts himself off with a groan. “Damn it, I sound like Stuttering Bill! Why can’t I just _say_ it?”

“You—“

“Wait,” he says, cutting Stan off. “Just give me a minute. I can do it.”

Thunder rumbles overhead, a sure sign that rain will begin to fall soon, and Stanley eyes the sky again, but Richie is staring at his own hands, breathing heavily, so he waits.

“I carved that,” Richie finally says, and he points with a shaking finger at the _R + E_. “I carved that, Stanley, and I _meant_ it.” He gasps out a laugh that sounds more like a sob, and Stanley isn’t good with crying so he’s glad Richie’s face is still dry. “And I wish I didn’t, I wish I didn’t mean it, but I can’t help it, and you can’t tell _anyone_, you can’t tell him—”

“Oh,” Stan says, and Richie’s mouth slams shut.

Richie doesn’t meet his eyes, instead casting a watery, rueful grin at the wooden slats beneath their feet, though his cheeks are still flushed from embarrassment and suppressed tears. “I had kinda hoped this would go better.”

Stan ignores the last comment, because yeah, Richie is a fucking mess. “Eddie,” he says. “That’s who E is. You _like_ him. You’re a—”

“Yeah,” Richie says, just a tad too loud. “I just… it happened so fast and before I knew it the letters were in the wood and I couldn’t take them back and I just didn’t know what to do? So I went to the telephone booth up on the road and called you. Because what else could I have done?”

“I don’t know,” Stanley says, because he really doesn’t. He can’t even imagine.

Richie’s head snaps up, then, and the look in his eyes is almost feral. Like a caged animal. “You _are_ my friend, you know. I had to tell someone, and you’re—you’re _good_ about stuff, and I really hope you don’t hate me.”

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” Stan says. “And I don’t hate you.” Because he doesn’t. Maybe he should, but—he’s hated Richie before, when he does too many stupid voices and when he pushes Stan into the quarry water and when he talks through every movie they see. And this doesn’t feel like that. This just feels like Richie being… Richie.

Richie almost looks shocked, like he hadn’t expected that, and _that’s_ the first thing that really gets to Stan. His friend thought that he would hate him. His _friend_. “Okay,” Richie whispers, almost like he’s talking to himself. He blinks hard a couple times. “That’s… good.”

A large raindrop hits Stan’s ear, suddenly, and he flinches. “Shit,” he says. “It’s raining. I gotta go.”

“Right. Sorry.”

And Stan doesn’t know exactly what Richie’s apologizing for—bringing him out into the rain, or for being a queer, or for… something.

“It’s _fine_,” Stan insists. “Really. I’ll see you, okay?”

“Sure thing, Stanley,” Richie says.

Stan smacks his heel into the kickstand of his bike, taking off up the road. Another drop of rain hits his forehead, and he shivers. _It’s fucking cold,_ he thinks, and pedals faster.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are, as always, appreciated.  
find me on tumblr, my main is [@perseusjaxon](https://perseusjaxon.tumblr.com) and my writing blog is [@lowriting](https://lowriting.tumblr.com)!


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